The Memory Box
by NoCleverSig
Summary: On Christmas Eve, a melancholy Helen Magnus reflects on a Christmas day spent with John Druitt and a life that could have been. Part 1 of 2
1. 1: Christmas Present, Christmas Past

**Author's Note: **Sigh...I miss Helen and John SO MUCH! I just had to write a little romantic something about them to tide me through the holidays. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Thanks, as always, to MajorSam, Beta and Friend extraordinaire. Happy Holidays y'all!

**The Memory Box  
><strong>**(Part 1: Christmas Present, Christmas Past)  
><strong>by NoCleverSig  
>Copyright 2011<p>

_Christmas, 1887_

The warm, Caribbean sun sparkled off of Helen Magnus' golden, blonde curls, her face turned toward the turquoise sea, her mouth open in awe. John Druitt grinned in delight as he ran his fingers through her hair, the sea breeze molding her dress against her skin, the locket she'd given him still icy cold as it rested upon his chest.

"Better?" he teased.

She turned and smiled up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on tiptoes in the bright, white sand to kiss him.

"Much. Oh, John!" she shook her head in disbelief.

"Merry Christmas, Helen."

She smiled at him again, her eyes shining, then leaned in and kissed him once more, the taste of eggnog and sherry still sweet on his lips.

* * *

><p><em>Christmas Eve, 2011<em>

Will Zimmerman was perched on the edge of the couch across from the fireplace, Guinness in hand, the 16 foot Christmas fir sparkling behind him. Abby sat beside him, their fingers interlocked as they watched Henry, who sat on the opposite side, his hand lightly resting on Erica's stomach. Behind them Kate engaged Biggie in animated conversation about Garris and Hollow Earth, but mostly about Garris, her face glowing bright.

Off to the side, sitting alone in a wing chair, Helen Magnus sat with brandy in hand, watching the scene unfold, suddenly caught in a wave of melancholy that washed over her like a cold, damp fog.

An extraordinary peace had descended upon the Sanctuary the past week, and Magnus had accepted it with unquestioning joy. They deserved peace. After everything they had been through, to come out scarred but still whole, hurt but still loved, was a Christmas miracle. Dinner, as usual, had been elaborate and delectable. Each year Biggie worked to outdo his meal from the year before, and each year he succeeded. Presents had been exchanged, which made them smile, laugh, or cry, sometimes all three. And Christmas carols, a Victorian tradition Helen refused to relinquish, had been sung even by Will, the music taking on new meaning as he rested his eyes on Abby.

It had been a lovely Christmas Eve. But now, surrounded by mostly young couples in love, Helen Magnus felt suddenly alone, the scene before her lying out like a tableau inside a snow globe. She could see it but couldn't touch, forever separated by a thin veneer of glass from the happiness within.

"Hey, you okay?"

All eyes turned toward her as Will Zimmerman spoke, a worried expression on his face.

She forced a smile. "Fine. Wonderful, in fact. Just a little tired," she lied. "I think I'll retire for the night," she said, rising up from her chair. She'd be damned if she'd let her waning mood ruin Christmas Eve for everyone else.

"But Doc, it's barely midnight!" Henry insisted. "We still have more carols to sing, cookies to devour, and eggnog to…grog?"

Will groaned, and Magnus laughed.

"You carry on, Henry. I'll see you all bright and early tomorrow morning for breakfast and mimosas," she looked pointedly at Biggie, keeping the mood light. "Goodnight everyone, and Merry Christmas."

They shared hugs and kisses as she made her way out. Magnus reached the hallway and almost made it to the stairs before Biggie stopped her.

"You alright?" he asked, the concern heavy in his voice.

She turned and smiled at him; he knew her far too well for deception.

"I'll be fine, old friend." She inclined her head back toward the drawing room. "You go on. I just need a bit of time alone. I'll see you in the morning." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas," she said, then turned and walked up the stairs.

"Merry Christmas," he mumbled after her, a slight pang in his heart as he watched her go.

* * *

><p>She tried to read, first a novel then medical journals. When that didn't work she attempted Sudoku. When she still couldn't sleep she grabbed her iPad and surfed the Net, checking her email, catching up on the news, reading blogs, and then finally lurking on Twitter.<p>

_Had it really come to this?_ she thought, irritated at herself.

She tossed the tablet aside, pulled the blanket back, and switched on the light.

She couldn't sleep. Her mind wouldn't let her. In a moment of weakness, surrounded by fervent young love, she'd let her mind wander to the past, a mistake she rarely made. Now she was paying the price. She wouldn't settle until she'd dealt with it; walked herself through what had been, with all its glorious highs and painful lows.

Magnus slipped out of bed and silently padded across her room to her closet, turning on the ceiling light, blinking from the brightness, and walking in, her clothes and shoes neatly arranged in bountiful shelves and drawers. She made her way toward the back of the room and pulled out an antique trunk from the wall, its wood worn and banded with leather. With a heavy sigh she sat down and opened it.

A smile crossed her lips as her fingers slipped inside the chest and back through time.

One by one her hands grasped mementos of her life, the dust gently tickling her nose…a baby's quilt, a porcelain doll, a stethoscope, a daguerreotype, until finally reaching the object her mind refused to forget.

It was a box, rectangular in shape, and not much bigger than a cigar holder. Pink, lavender, and blue papier-mâché covered it, with pictures of flowers and angels neatly pasted throughout. Although the edges were frayed, the frame was sturdy, and centered on the lid, cut out in what had once been white lace, was the shape of a heart with words written in a clear, strong hand:

"_To the breath, depth, and height my soul can reach...  
><em>_With the breath, smiles, tears of all my life."_

_MJD_

She closed her eyes and traced the words with her hand, fingering the soft lace. He'd taken the lines from her favorite love poem, one he'd recited to her often in their courtship. It was odd how much of a romantic he'd been given what he would become later in life. But in hindsight, it made sense. His existence, right or wrong, good or bad, could never be accused of lacking passion.

Magnus opened her eyes, breathed deep, and lifted the lid, steeling herself against the memories that waited within.

* * *

><p><em>Christmas Morning, 1887<em>

"John, it's _freezing _out here!"

John Druitt pulled a reluctant Helen Magnus by one hand out the back door of James Watson's London home and into the wintry garden, the cold air stinging the bare skin on her face and hands.

"You could have at least allowed me to put on my hat and cloak!" she continued in mild protest, the air circling in misty puffs around her lips.

Druitt turned back and laughed. Her tone may have been scolding, but Helen's eyes shone with amusement, her face a rosy pink from the frost. His heart pounded in his chest at the mere sight of her never mind the touch, the feel of her small hands so cold, so perfectly melded into his own. He drew her into the far corner of the garden near the outer wall where a small, curved concrete bench sat tucked underneath an arbor of ivy that sheltered it from a view of the house.

"It's only for a moment, Helen. I promise. Please, sit down."

He swung her around, briefly resting his hand on her waist and helping her to the bench, giving her time to adjust her gown and bustle. He scooted in beside her, the bench barely big enough for two, the still green ivy cocooning them in a blanket of draping leaves.

Cold as she was, Helen couldn't help but smile, caught up in John's enthusiasm. He'd hidden something behind his back. A present, of course. She'd given hers to him last night, a gold locket with her picture inside, and he'd worn it around his neck since. She'd been concerned that it was too arrogant a gift, but he loved it. His hands reached to touch it throughout Christmas Eve dinner and then after when they retired to the drawing room for carols and games. Each time he did so, she felt her own skin burn, as though through some trick of magic he had reached out and caressed her.

"I wanted to give you your present. Alone," he told her.

The way his voice dropped when he said _'alone'_ made her shiver, but not from the cold. With her father in Europe and John's family all but gone now, they'd readily accepted Watson's invitation to spend Christmas in his home with his family and friends, including Nicola and Nigel. But spending the last several days in James' home with his guests meant being discreet about their affections, something they would have had to worry little about in her own house. She'd dismissed her father's servants for the week, sending them home for the holidays. But James had asked so sweetly, and despite the desire to hide away, just the two of them for Christmas, a part of her had wanted to be with friends, having the worrisome feeling that it might be the last time they did so.

Nevertheless, she'd shaken the heaviness off, and despite their forced abstinence, had enjoyed the last three days immensely. Here in the cold with John, finally alone, his fit figure pressed warmly against her side, the heavy ivy sheltering them from prying eyes, her mind and emotions drifted like the translucent snow flurries that had started to fall from the sky.

John broke the reverie, finally pulling from behind his back the present he had so artfully hidden.

"Merry Christmas, Helen," he said smiling and handing it to her.

It was wrapped in plain paper with bright red ribbon and an equally bright red bow. Helen took it from him, his hands lingering on hers as he passed it to her. She slowly undid the ribbon, then the paper, and gasped at the object inside, understanding immediately its purpose and significance.

"A Memory Box! John, you made this?"

Druitt nodded.

It was lovingly covered in pink, blue and lavender tissue with matching flowers and angels pasted throughout. On top was a white lace heart with a verse written in John's bold, dark hand.

"_To the breath, depth, and height my soul can reach...  
><em>_With the breath, smiles, tears of all my life."_

_MJD_

Helen Magnus wasn't one for tears, but the significance of the verse, two of her favorite lines from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, made her press her hand to her heart and swallow to keep from crying.

John looked at her worriedly, reaching up to stroke her hair, which she'd let down today, golden curls spilling around her shoulders.

"Do you like it?" he asked concerned.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

"I love it! I love you…"

With one hand she held the box, the other she reached up and pressed against his cheek. Druitt reached his hand up and held hers there in return, the cold wind suddenly still, their eyes locked. Then he closed his eyes and turned his face into her palm, pressing his lips against her soft flesh.

The simple gesture undid her. She needed this man, needed him more than she had needed anything in her life. Every ounce of desire for female equality was embarrassingly cast aside as Helen thought only of how much she wanted to please him, make a home for him, lay with him…bear his children.

John must have read her thoughts because he dropped his hands to her waist, pulled her toward him, the box pressed between them, and took her mouth firmly in his.

He tasted of eggnog and sherry, smelled of citrus and musk. Her senses filled with the scent of him. Every cell in her body vibrated with a rush of desire at the feel of his warm mouth against hers, his tongue lightly tracing her lips, her teeth, her cheeks, her tongue.

Helen wrapped her arms around John's neck, pulling him closer, running her fingers through his deep, brown hair, toying with the small hairs that bristled from the cold at the base of his neck.

When they could no longer breathe, they broke apart, both of them gasping for air. John moved his hands from Helen's waist to her cheeks and held her there.

"I love you, Helen. More than life itself. Forever. For all eternity. You know that? Don't you? Tell me you do."

His eyes, usually blue, were wild and dark. She nodded, a million thoughts racing through her mind, when he pulled her toward him again, fiercely crushing his mouth against hers. The kiss was so sudden, so powerful, she was caught off guard, unsure what to do with her hands. But as he calmed himself and deepened the kiss, she found herself responding in kind, her mouth opening wider to receive him, her tongue edging out to meet his, her hands moving to his chest, making their way under his jacket, playing with the buttons on his waistcoat, wanting so much to touch his warm flesh.

This time when he pulled away she whimpered.

"There's more to the present then just the box, Helen. Open it." he encouraged, laying his hand on hers.

She looked down and did as he said. Then she looked up at him, puzzled. Inside was a single object, a vile of white sand held in check with a small, tan cork.

A Memory Box was for keepsakes, mementos from lovers, sisters, or friends. Items from places or events that held special meaning in one's life. She and John had travelled to the English coastline together, to beaches in Italy and France, but there was nothing she could think of that held special significance for them.

He saw her puzzled look and smiled, deciding to save her from further confusion.

"It's your Christmas present. The second one. The one I'm taking you to."

Helen shivered, a sudden draft catching her by surprise. "But I thought _this_ was my present?"

"It is. But there's more." John reached out and held her hand, grasping it firmly.

"Hold on. You shan't be cold much longer."

In a shimmer of light they disappeared, the ivy leaves trembling from the frigid air and falling snow that swirled in the empty arbor.

_End Part 1 of 2...to be continued soon :)_


	2. 2: Christmas Past, Christmas Future

**The Memory Box  
><strong>Part 2: Christmas Past, Christmas Future  
>by NoCleverSig<br>Copyright 2011

_Christmas Eve, 2011_

Helen Magnus sat on her closet floor, memory box in her lap, see-sawing a vile of sand between her thumb and forefinger. The tiny, white grains drifted to and fro, tossed back and forth by the unseen, unfathomable force of gravity. A sudden chill swept over her, and she shivered, breaking the tide of memory that had engulfed her.

She shook her head, irritated at her gloom, and returned the bottle to its container, preparing to put the keepsakes back in her trunk, when she hesitated. She looked down, fingering the white lace heart, now yellowed with age, and walked out of the closet container in hand.

Tucking her lavender satin nightgown under her legs and burrowing deep under her covers, Magnus propped her back up with pillows and reopened the box. The light from her bedside lamp cast a soft, pale glow on her face as she withdrew, one by one, the memories of her love affair with John Druitt. She'd forgotten how much she'd kept. Letters, sonnets, a valentine, her ring, and pressed flowers from the picnic they'd taken at Oxford. It was on that day that she'd given her virginity. The moment she'd committed her life to Druitt, body and soul. She closed her eyes at that memory, steeling herself against the onslaught of conflicting emotions it released, and found her fingers once again wrapped around the tiny vile of sand.

* * *

><p><em>Christmas 1887<em>

"Better?" John teased as Helen gazed in wonder at the warm, turquoise sea.

She turned and smiled up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on tiptoes in the bright, white sand to kiss him.

"Much. Oh, John!" she shook her head in disbelief.

"Merry Christmas, Helen."

She smiled at him again, her eyes shining, then leaned in and kissed him once more, the taste of eggnog and sherry still sweet on his lips.

Since his ability to teleport had manifested, John and taken her around the world, but this place was new. She was sure she'd never been here, wherever here was…

"Where are we?" she asked, looking around.

"Guess," he said, wrapping his arms around her to shelter her from the strong, ocean breeze.

Helen took in her surroundings. She and John stood on a white sand beach, the grains so fine they looked like powder. Beyond was a turquoise sea, the sun warm overhead. It was too bright and too hot to be north, and the coastline too smooth to be Italy or Greece.

She twisted her neck to look behind them. There were palm trees with coconuts and dense forests of tropical plants and mangroves. There was also a small shelter about 100 feet away but no sign of anyone else besides themselves standing on the beach.

"The Caribbean? Somewhere near Central or South America perhaps?"

John tightened his embrace, leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"It's one of the reasons I love you so. You are brilliant as well as beautiful."

"So I'm right?" she asked playfully, looking up at him.

"Of course. We're on a small island off the coast of Mexico just below the Yucatan."

Helen eyed the hut that stood oddly out of place in the distance, the only hint of humanity within eyesight.

"And we are…"

"Alone," he completed her thought.

She looked up at him.

"The beach, the shelter, is ours. To spend the day in. Perhaps the night," he trailed off, his eyes skimming over her body, sending a warmth through her core that felt like molten copper and had nothing to do with the glaring sun above.

"But what about James?" she asked shakily. "He'll wonder where we've gone as will his guests."

John grinned. "James is well aware of my plans. He helped, and he's prepared to make excuses on our behalf. Nikola and Nigel will, no doubt, surmise the truth, but only them." He uncurled his arms from her waist, grabbed her hands, and tugged her toward the hut. "Come! I want you to see it!"

She couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. He was like a boy with a new Christmas toy, eager to show to his friends. She hoped to always see him this way, smiling, full of joy.

They made their way through the soft sand to the small round shelter, pulled back the cloth cover that served as a door, and stepped inside. Helen blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. A hemp rug covered the floor. Atop it was a raised pallet with white, cotton covers and pillows. Beside it was a short, low table, which held a woven basket filled with fruit. In the corner was a large cargo box. On the wall hung a pair of white, linen robes. There was no other furniture. No windows, although she saw slats on the sides of the structure for ventilation.

John looked at her eagerly, his eyes wide. "Do you like it? It's just for us, for our holiday. Look…" he went on before she could reply. He took off his coat and hung it on a hook on the wall, his long legs taking three strides to reach the box in the corner. He knelt down and opened it.

"I brought water, soap, towels, wine…" he continued, digging through it. "Everything that I could think of to make us comfortable."

Realization dawned as Helen looked around. He'd been planning this for some time. Built it and brought everything for this one day together.

"You did all this for me?" she asked, her voice low.

He paused and looked up at her, his brow perspiring from the heat.

"Well, James helped a bit. Do you like it?" His voice bore the faintest hint of uncertainty.

Helen nodded her head, the enormity of his present making her momentarily breathless.

"It's…wonderful," she finally managed. "I don't know what else to say, John. I can't think of a greater gift. Thank you."

He beamed at her, obviously touched by her words, stood up and walked over to her, holding her gently by the elbows.

"I wanted to give you something special. Something you'd remember forever."

She looked around the hut, the pallet of sheets and pillows dominating the small space. A small golden conch shell was the only decoration.

"You succeeded," she assured him, placing her hands on his chest and leaning up to kiss him.

The air between them stilled. The moist, tropical heat bore down overhead. The smell of sea and salt air filled her nostrils. The vibrations of the surf rumbled in her ears.

"I want you, Helen," John finally spoke, his fingers anxiously caressing her skin. "As my wife, my soul mate."

"You already have me," she answered him, her hands edging up to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, the dim light glinting off the ring on her hand. She slipped his vest off his shoulders and went to hang it on the wall with his coat. When she turned around, he was unhooking the buttons on his shirt. The way his eyes locked on hers made her heart quicken.

"Let me help you," she murmured, trying to catch her breath. He dropped his hands to his side, defenseless. Her fingers worked their way down his chest, skimming over his flesh, playing with the hairs on his chest.

When she reached the last button, she felt him set his hands on her hips and pull her gently toward him. His face bent low against her cheek.

"I love you, Helen," he whispered into her ear, his hands tightening their grasp, his lips brushing against her face. "With all my heart."

She closed her eyes, fingers hovering on the edges of his trousers. This feeling of wanting, of desire so fierce she couldn't think clearly, unhinged her. Of all the lessons her father had taught her, discipline and self control were among his most precious. With John, she had always lacked such control. It'd been this way since the day she realized that she loved him. She felt like a cart, pushed off the top of a hill, careening wildly downward, forever on the verge of crashing.

"John," she started, looking up at him, but he silenced her with a kiss, his hands skimming up her back, feverishly working to undo the buttons of her dress. His mouth was warm and sweet and faintly salty. His hands made their way up her spine, loosening the fastenings one by one. When he'd finished, she wriggled out of her gown, letting it fall to the floor, uncaring of whether it became soiled, thinking of nothing but the feel of his lips against hers.

Layer by layer he undid her and she him, until they stood naked before each other. He eased her down onto the pallet, covering them up with the light cotton sheet, and then slid his hand between her thighs. They'd been apart for days, kissing one another for what felt like hours; her body was more than ready for him. He eased himself up to mount her when she pushed him onto his back and straddled his chest. He laughed, smiling up at her.

"Miss Magnus? Is there something you want?"

She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

"You, Mr. Druitt. And I shall have you."

Helen lifted her hips and slid herself down on top of John, slowly taking in his depth and breadth, both of them gasping in ectasy at the sensation of flesh against flesh. He closed his eyes and put his hands on her hips, easing her back and forth as she rode him.

Their rhythm established, Helen sat up, hands on John's chest, her eyes closed at the building pleasure. John's hands moved to her breasts, squeezing them, and then holding the weight of them in his hands, his face contorted from the effort to keep from coming too quickly. Helen saw his struggle and paused, bending down to kiss him, her tongue darting into his mouth, gliding over his teeth, her own body beginning to shake with need.

When she couldn't stand the stillness any longer, she tore free of his lips and tried to sit back up, to concentrate on the mounting pleasure growing inside her, but John wouldn't allow it. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back down, his mouth hungrily seeking her breasts, locking his lips onto her firm mounds, sucking her pink nipples, first one then the other.

The sensation of John's mouth on her breasts, his manhood straining inside of her, the waves cascading against the sand, the beads of sweat trickling down her neck overwhelmed her. With a final, violent thrust she came on top of him, crying out in pleasure, her muscles clenching around his solid flesh. He followed her fast, moaning loudly and tightening his hold on her hips as he poured himself into her, body and soul.

She collapsed on top of him, their bodies sticky with sweat and sex, her head against his chest, the sound of John's beating heart and the waves hitting the shore lulling them both into a deep slumber.

* * *

><p>Later, Helen awoke, sore, sleepy, and ravenous with hunger. She had moved from John's chest to his side, her arm resting on top of his torso, her leg draped over his long limbs. His hand lay gently atop hers, his knee bent between her thighs.<p>

This was how it was going to be with them, she thought. Forever in love, always together. She'd continue her father's work, and he would be by her side. They'd have children, gobs of them. Daughters with yellow hair and tall, lanky sons with brown and satiny voices like their father's. They'd name them Gregory and James. Her daughter she'd call Patricia, after her mother, although the thought of that suddenly pierced her heart.

"What are you thinking about?" John mumbled his voice rough from sleep.

She smiled into his side. "Nothing. Everything. And you?"

He chuckled. "The same."

A comfortable silence settled between them.

"Do you think it will always be this way? With us?" she asked quietly.

John thought a moment. "I hope to provide you something better than a hut," he teased.

She tickled him in the side, and he laughed. "I'm serious."

He paused and tightened his grip on her hand. "I can't imagine any other way, can you?"

"No," Helen answered, shaking her head. "I cannot."

They spent the rest of the day together, washing themselves off in the sea, making love in the surf, eating, drinking, and planning their lives. They returned the next morning to London, vowing to come back to their beach. It would be their holiday place, special only to them.

They never did.

* * *

><p>Magnus quietly closed the wooden box and set it down on her night stand. A part of her wanted desperately to cry at the memories she'd unearthed. Another, stronger part wouldn't allow it. She'd shed enough tears for John Druitt through the years, and she had vowed long ago she would shed no more. Not for him, not for any lover.<p>

With a deep, cleansing sigh, Helen rolled over and shut off the light. She turned onto her side, adjusting her pillows, grabbing and holding one in her arms, and pressing it against her stomach.

"Where are you, John?" she thought absently. If he was dead, wouldn't she know it? Or was that just a romantic notion?

She fell asleep, her body swaying to the rhythm of the waves.

* * *

><p>The smell of Earl Grey Tea and bacon greeted Magnus when she awoke. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and looked sleepily at the clock. It was 9:15. She couldn't recall the last time she'd slept so late. When she'd finally fallen asleep last night she must have done so soundly.<p>

She slipped out of bed, put on her robe, and looked out the window. The sky was cloudy and grey. A thin mist hovered over the water. On the edge of her window, which was fogged from the heat, lay a thin layer of white. She rubbed her eyes harder; not trusting her vision, but when she opened them again the whiteness remained. It covered her windowsill, blanketed the grounds of the Sanctuary, and swirled through the air outside her home.

_Christmas snow! Dear God!_

Magnus put her hands to her mouth and laughed, feeling suddenly like a little girl. Whatever melancholy that had washed over her last night was suddenly gone. She felt happy, excited, and best of all, at peace.

A quiet knock sounded on her door, and she turned to see Biggie walk in, a cup of tea in hand.

"Just the ticket!" she said, her voice full of cheer taking the cup and saucer from him.

"Someone woke up on the right side of the bed," he grunted.

"Indeed someone did," she replied, the smile bright on her face. "Have you seen the snow?" she asked, nodding toward the window.

"Mmm-hmm. Some of us have been up for a while."

Magnus grinned into her tea, breathing in the warm air and fragrant aroma before closing her eyes and taking a sip.

"Ah," she said. "Pure heaven!"

"Glad you like it. You'll like breakfast even more if you can find time to join us. Better hurry up, though. Henry is drinking up the mimosas. Says he's eating for two."

Magnus' eyes went wide. Biggie's Famous Christmas Mimosas! How could she forget!

"Give me seven minutes!" she said, quickly setting the tea down on her night stand and rushing toward her restroom. Biggie laughed and made his way out, happy that whatever demons that plagued her had been washed away by the Christmas snow.

* * *

><p>Five minutes later Magnus emerged, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, a touch of make up on. She went to her closet and put on a red sweater and jeans before slipping her feet into a pair of wicked good slippers. She crossed to her bedside to pick up her tea, when she noticed the memory box. This time, instead of sadness, she smiled. The box held only sweet memories of a young girl and a young man terribly in love. She picked it up to put it away when she noticed the lid askew. Something was sticking out, preventing it from closing. She opened it up to fix it when her heart stopped. A bright golden conch shell, its small spirals sticking out, sat squarely in the center of the box, preventing it from closing. It hadn't been there last night, she was sure of it. It had never been there. John had left it in the hut on the beach, and they had never gone back.<p>

The hair on the back of her neck bristled and she swung around, sure she'd find John Druitt standing behind her. But there was nothing, only the silent showering of snow in the window beyond.

Magnus swallowed hard, set the box back down, and shakily grabbed her tea. There was a logical explanation. Perhaps she'd had the shell all along and simply forgotten? Maybe she'd dropped it last night and Biggie had picked it up?

She'd think about it later.

Outside, in a shimmer of light, a dark figured vanished. The ivy leaves that tumbled over the wall trembled from the frigid air and falling snow that swirled in the now empty yard.

END


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